Turtle Time (again)

At the feet of Yoshi's statue, Splinter put down his bundle and bowed deeply. "Master." His voice came out thin, forced past the lump in his throat that might never go away.

There were precious few images of Hamato Yoshi left in existence; Splinter was in possession of only one photograph, small and worn at the edges. This statue, larger than life and still smaller than he had once been to Splinter, was such a startlingly accurate rendering of his beloved master that he could barely stand to look at it. If only Tang Shen was here with her beloved, if only they could stand together in strength and love for eternity.

Splinter carefully knelt with the assistance of his stick and sat in seiza. On the statue's pedestal, he placed a small candle and an orange pilfered from the party honoring Michelangelo. The party was ongoing a few pavilions away, hundreds of people from at least as many dimensions and worlds, all gathering to celebrate his son as they had once celebrated Splinter himself, and Yoshi before them.

To the side of Yoshi, Splinter's own statue stood. He had never returned to see it completed after his last Battle Nexus, he was too preoccupied with the little turtles at his heels and the way they threw themselves into training with renewed vigor at the sight of their sensei wounded. Latent protective instincts had roared to life within each one of them when he came home with a bandaged leg and his walking stick. It seemed all the worse for his refusal to tell them how he'd sustained the injury—everything about his mysterious three-day journey away from home troubled them deeply, and they channeled it into their training.

Seeing it there now, and earlier in the day with his sons, twisted a strange feeling in his chest. Like the air had been punched right from his lungs. Shen may not be there to stand beside her love, but Splinter was there to stand beside his Sensei. Though they were separated in life, in death they would continue to stand strong in the Pavilion. He just had to hope that would be enough.

Michelangelo’s statue would be next in this line of champions. Splinter wondered what pose the boy would choose. Perhaps something cheesy, like that bird pose from that karate movie he loved, or something like the superheroes in his comics. A third-generation Battle Nexus Champion. His brothers were already tired of having it rubbed in their faces, but they knew how much it meant all the same. Whatever the statue ended up looking like, he had done his family proud.

He snickered to himself, thinking of Yoshi and Michelangelo meeting. He liked to think Yoshi would love all his sons, but Michelangelo would have entertained him to no end. The joy and love for life in the turtle is infectious to all, but his master would have found it especially endearing.

Splinter thought of it more often than he’d ever admit. It was lonely, being the single father of four mutants. He often imagined what his sensei might say or do, or how he would get along with the boys. When he was younger, newer to his this mutated body that rode the line between animal and man, he worried that his master would have been disgusted or ashamed of what he had become. Had Yoshi lived, would he have rejected Splinter? Or worse—his sons?

The thought bothered him less these days, as he became more comfortable in his body and his identity. The average human would be disgusted or scared of Splinter—a rat the size of a man—but his master would never have been one of them. Yoshi laid down his life defending the utrom, a species far more foreign to him that he had no reason to love besides the kindness of his own heart. By now, he knew better than to think a simple change in his body would be enough to estrange Yoshi.

Yoshi would have been surprised perhaps, the same way the Daimyo was when he realized the pet of a past Champion was following in his footsteps, but he would have loved Splinter all the same. Indeed, if he had possessed even a fraction of the bright, burning flame of pride that Splinter held for his sons, it would be enough.

Splinter picked up the orange and used a claw to pick a hole in the skin. He gazed a little longer at the image of his Yoshi, trying to commit each plane of his face to memory.

The distant murmur of the party abruptly became a roar, loud with laughter and joy, and Splinter’s ears flattened against his head. He hoped his sons were not causing too much trouble.

Splinter drew in a shaky breath and stood, then bowed deeply. “I believe it’s time I checked on my sons. I hope you are resting well, Master, and we have brought honor to your name today.”